


The questions we don’t ask each other

by ThatWALKERKid



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s10e04 Home Again, Prompt Fic, Questions, my thoughts, probably isn’t what happened but I took some creative liberties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:09:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22745320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatWALKERKid/pseuds/ThatWALKERKid
Summary: Mulder and the magic 8 ball in s10e04: Home Again.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	The questions we don’t ask each other

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written with haste but with respect and came about through the love and care of a good friend trying to help me through a bad time and my disconnect from being able to write.. so this ones for her. 
> 
> Let me know what u think. 
> 
> All the vibes 
> 
> Mel xx (@theQueerwriter)

* * *

The room was quiet; The walls dancing with shadows cast by a flickering candle on the shelf. It was still and peaceful, yet overwhelming and loud; a battle that Mulder’s mind fought with itself on a regular basis, personified into his surroundings. His eyes wandered the various items placed with care and due attention around the space; a soul having lived a life here, one he could only wish he’d known. 

A lot had happened and it seemed like there was not a damn thing he could do to pull it all back from the precipice it dangled deliciously over towards the blistering inferno that raged below. He could only hold onto the facts, onto the tangible in front of him; the things Scully had always said would save him. His feet shuffled through the room, trying desperately to feel steady, like the ground wouldn’t erupt and swallow him whole at any moment. 

His fingers wafted over the items before him, feeling their aura, trying to gauge just what kind of person had held them. They told so many stories of a life lived, of memories made. His mind flickered to what he owned, to his things and just what they said about him. It hit him that most of the things he owned weren’t tied to him on a personal level. Sure he had his basketball, and his favourite baseball cap but most of his possessions told stories of others, of things that were unexplained. He’d lived his life on paper, in reports, in photographs of others; the only thing in his life that he could hold a candle to was Scully, she was the tangent of reality, the solid ground he could find his feet on, the one thing that was there, that told the world he’d existed for something, someone other than the chase for answers he was still fully yet to find. 

His hand hovered over the shiny black, plastic surface of a magic 8 ball; sitting silent and begrudging. He picked it up, it’s darkened surface coming to life as the liquid inside it sloshed about. He stared at it, willing it to give him all the answers he had wanted for so long. It gave him nothing and he’d felt it fitting. The candle in front of him flickered and glinted off the shiny surface as he contemplated putting it back where he’d found it. But something within him was begging him to ask a question that had long since fettered itself to the back of his mind, a constant clanging rising through his thoughts. 

He’d have thought it stupid if he hadn’t just spent his whole life chasing noises in the dark and things that went bump in the night. He turned the ball so the screen was facing down, and took a deep breath readying himself for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to know at that particular moment; closing his eyes he unshackled the question. 

“Can Scully forgive me?”

His hand trembled a little, as he opened his eyes and turned the ball skyward. The die floated out of its murky depths, it’s face pressing against the screen, white letters etching into its blue surroundings. 

“Cannot predict now.”

Fitting, he thought. He wondered if he’d asked the question a different way, whether he’d get the same wary response. He’d asked if she could forgive him, not whether she would; a remark on his self notion that he would always need forgiving for the things done, past, present and to come. There was a sense of truth in the completely inadequate response, a knowing that even though he loved her and she loved him, there was always going to be something, there was always going to be an unpredictability to who they were apart and together. 

Mulder gently placed the ball back in its place on the shelf; staring a little longer at its screen.It didn’t hurt to not know the answer and it did occur to him that maybe the 8 ball wasn’t meant for his eyes or questions, and that the answer he had been given was a polite way of saying, the question wasn’t meant for answering in that moment.. and he was fine with that. He had thousands of unanswered questions loaded in his mind and the only way he was going to ever find the truth, was to keep living it.


End file.
